Sam

by Iain Rob Wright

  The slender brunette noticed that Angela was staring at her. The girl smiled, but awkwardness tainted her thin red lips. She was no doubt wondering why a woman twice her age was eyeing her up.

  “You from the University?” Angela asked, trying to sound breezy and aloof.

  The girl nodded. “I’m studying Creative Writing.”

  “Oh, great. You plan on being a writer?”

  “I guess.”

  “Go for it. Nice way to make a living. So you made many friends yet?”

  The girl’s awkwardness grew. “Yes, a few. I should probably get back to them.”

  Angela watched the girl walk away and realised she’d done so without placing an order. Had Angela really become so creepy that strangers had now started to flee from her?

  She glanced around the bar at the random faces and noted that she was the oldest by far – a full two decades on most of them. A pathetic sight, she must seem, propping up the bar all night alone.

  Time to drag my carcass home I think. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll fall asleep before I notice how cold and empty my bed is.

  Angela slunk away from her barstool and took a second to make sure her feet were steady on the floor. She was drunk, but still capable. Her tolerance for whisky was enough to put most men to shame. In fact it was a rarity that she was ever truly inebriated.

  On her way over to the pub’s exit, she nodded to a group of young lads who were as regular at the bar as she was. The grins on their faces made her wonder if they’d been laughing at her – making comments about how pathetic she was. Angela lifted her chin and strode right past them.

  The cold air hit her cheeks as soon as she stepped outside. April was a month that could go either way: sunny and dry, or wet and damp. This particular evening was dry, but biting with a sharp chill at the same time.

  Angela’s usual place to catch a taxi home was the Civic Hall car park, which was just past St Peter’s House church. She headed there now, passing by numerous groups of giggling students conducting their own journeys to clubs or parties on campus – they were still blissfully unaware of the boring grind that would one day enslave them all.

  The looming spectre of the cathedral fell over her and the passing groups of teenagers thinned out. Eventually she had the streets entirely to herself. The city was heavily built-up and lacking in much greenery at all, but in the shadows of the evening, the tall, red-bricked buildings were quite beautiful. They were like great sentinels destined to outlive the generations of people that would come and go through their corridors.

  Angela took some short steps downwards and realised there was someone walking behind her. If not for the concrete jungle of backstreets making the stranger’s footsteps echo, Angela would likely not have known they were even there – or that there were two of them.

  She glanced back and caught a glimpse of their shadowy figures. Their movements seemed hurried, as if they sought to catch up with her. Angela picked up speed. The echo of the strangers’ footsteps increased also.

  The Civic Hall was not far now, and with it would be crowds and taxis. She would feel safe once she got there. But she wasn’t going to make it in time. The two strangers would be upon her any second.

  The footsteps got closer, their pace quickening.

  Angela bolted left into an adjacent side street and broke into a run. Her body was intolerant of exertion and she huffed and puffed immediately. She reached the far corner of a nearby building and jinked left around it, then quickly slid inside an entrance alcove of an office block. Hopefully she’d been quick enough to lose her pursuers.

  If they’re even following me in the first place. I’m probably just being paranoid.

  Then why did they speed up when I did?

  Angela remained where she was in the alcove, backed against the brick wall, and listened. The footsteps had stopped. Either her pursuers had gone in a different direction, or they’d halted somewhere.

  Are they trying to figure out where I went?

  Angela realised she was panting. She took in a deep breath and held it, let it out slowly, tried to regain control of her lungs. It was unlike her to get so rattled, but a bad feeling had descended over her that put all of her senses on high alert.

  Or is it just the booze messing with my head? Why on Earth would anybody be following me? I’m nobody, just another drunk in a country full of them. This is all really stupid. I’d be laughing at myself right now if it wasn’t so pathetic.

  It was a full five minutes later when her breathing returned to normal and she felt like herself again. She stepped out from behind the wall, ready to head for the taxi rank and put the whole thing behind her, but instead she found herself face-to-face with two large men. They blocked her path and seemed ready to grab her at the first sign that she might run. She could smell the acrid odour of their cologne. It stung the back of her throat.

  “What the hell do you want?” she demanded.

  One of the men offered a handshake. “We’d like you to come with us, Reverend Murs. We need your help.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In defiance of every ounce of sense she possessed, Angela allowed herself to be led to a black-windowed saloon, parked-up on a nearby road. The night was too dark, and her knowledge of cars too small, to recognise what brand of vehicle it was, but it looked extravagant and expensive. Once she’d taken a seat inside, it was even more evident that the vehicle must have cost a small fortune. The seats were soft, stitched leather and the furnishings were understated in chrome and aluminium. Angela settled into the comfortable rear seat while her two chaperones climbed into the front.

  Angela cleared her throat. “So, will somebody tell me what this is all about, please? I can’t believe I even let you talk me into getting in the car.”

  “We mean you no harm, Reverend,” said the man in the front passenger seat.

  “Let’s just stick to Angela, shall we? I’m not a vicar anymore.”

  “My apologies. To answer your question: I don’t have any information to offer you, other than that my employer would like to speak with you.”

  “Enough of the James Bond bullshit,” Angela spat, and enjoyed the mild shock that wrote itself across the two men’s faces. People were always surprised to hear a priest – excommunicated or otherwise – use coarse language.

  The man in the passenger seat twisted around to face her and nodded as if agreeing with an opinion she’d given. He said, “Look, Angela. We honestly don’t know why our boss wants to see you, but I believe it has something to do with certain…skills…that you have.”

  Angela frowned. “What do you mean? What skills?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he spoke the answer: “Exorcism.”

  “Okay, let me the fuck out of here.” Angela grabbed at the door handle but found that it was locked. “Let me out of here NOW!”

  “Jut calm down, Angela. My employer only wants to speak with you. If you’re not interested in helping her after that, you will be free to go.”

  “Her? Your boss is a woman? Who?”

  The driver was the one who spoke this time. His answer was snippy. “We can’t tell you because of the nature of her business. She is a public figure and can’t afford to have news of her personal affairs getting out. All we know is that she needs an exorcist and that you were the one she wanted. She is willing to pay you for your time, whether you accept her plea or not.”

  Angela closed her eyes and sighed. What am I getting myself into? I’m not a priest anymore, but if somebody really does need my help, can I actually say no? I do still believe in some things. Plus, I could really really do with the money.

  “Start the engine,” she said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  The man in the passenger’s seat nodded. “Sure thing, Reverend.”

  “I already told you not to call me that. I am not a representative of the church. How long is this journey going to take anyway?”

  “Not too long,” said the driver. “Our employer is
in Warwickshire. I’d say perhaps just over an hour.”

  “Okay, then I hope you don’t mind if I get a little shut eye and sober up.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Angela closed her eyes.

  ***

  She awoke in what seemed like only a few minutes later, but the driver snidely informed her that that she had slept almost the entirety of the journey, snoring loudly all the way. The saloon was currently speeding its way along a narrow country road typical of Warwickshire’s rural landscape. It was probably the unevenness of the back road that had stirred her from sleep.

  She’d spent time in the county before when she’d covered a parish in a semi-rural village called Studley. It had been a quaint little place with lots of pubs and places to eat, and she’d enjoyed her time there. Warwickshire was a nice place to live. If you had the money.

  “We’re almost there, Angela,” said the man in the passenger seat.

  Angela checked her watch. It was past ten. “What am I going to do afterwards? It’s late.”

  “Depending on what transpires, you can either stay at the house, or we will put you up in a nearby hotel and take you home in the morning.”

  A night in a hotel. Things are getting better. Wonder if I can get them to pay my tab as well.

  “Do either of you have any water up front?” she asked. “My mouth is as dry as a camel’s arsehole.”

  The man in the passenger seat laughed while the driver cringed. He opened up the glove compartment and retrieved a half-finished bottle of spring water. Angela took it from him and finished it in one eager gulp, releasing a satisfied belch afterwards.

  “Some fine manners you’ve got there,” the driver commented.

  “Bite me.”

  There was silence in the car for another ten minutes or so, until the driver pulled onto a gravel driveway cut in half by an immense wrought iron fence. The saloon stopped in front of the gates and the driver pressed a button on a key fob hanging from the ignition. Slowly, the heavy gates parted in the middle and allowed access. The car continued up the drive, tyres crunching in the gravel.

  About a hundred metres up, the driver parked up beside a vast Georgian-style mansion. The building was a gargantuan square, with four floors of six windows across (twenty-four all together). The building wasn’t far off being a palace.

  “I’ve stayed in worse, I suppose,” said Angela.

  The man in the passenger seat chuckled. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?”

  “If you mean a shrine to affluence and greed, then yes, it certainly is. How many people live here?”

  “Just my employer and her son. There were various staff that boarded here also, but at the moment the place is pretty empty until some rehiring is done.”

  “How the other half live, eh?”

  “Indeed. Shall we?”

  Angela rubbed at her face to wake up more and then nodded. “Ready when you are.”

  The car door was opened for her and Angela stepped out. It was still chilly but the air was now fresh and crisp, cleaner than the air she was used to breathing in the industry-filled surroundings of Staffordshire. Angela found it interesting that the super-rich even got to enjoy a cleaner atmosphere than everyone else did.

  “We can go in through the main entrance,” said the man chaperoning her.

  “How about you tell me your name,” said Angela. “I’ve just driven fifty miles with you, after all.”

  The man smiled and offered his hand. “My name is Mike, but to be honest you probably won’t have much to do with me if you choose to stay here. Graham and I – Graham’s the guy who drove us here – are just glorified dogsbodies.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mike. Can’t say the same about Graham; guy seems like a bit of an arsehole.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Mike replied with a smile. “But he’s not that bad once you get to know him. I don’t think he likes priests to be honest, but that’s no reason for him to be so short with you.”

  “Well I don’t like priests either. Maybe somebody ought to tell him that I’m not one of them.”

  Mike nodded and then swept an arm towards the house. “Shall we?”

  They walked across the driveway and up a small set of stone steps. They led to the large set of thick wooden doors marking the house’s entrance. Angela didn’t know what type of wood they were made from, but they were dark and intricately carved. The two doors probably weighed a tonne each.

  Mike pressed a button on an intercom beside the door. There was a brief burst of static and then a voice floated out of the speaker.

  “Who is it?”

  “Frank, it’s Mike. I have Rev…Miss Murs with me.”

  There was no reply, but a positive-sounding buzz came from the speaker. Mike turned the handle on one of the gigantic doors and pushed it open with ease. Angela followed him through and found herself inside a cavernous, marble-floored foyer that looked more like a five-star hotel then a person’s home.

  A large and wiry, silver-haired man appeared at the top of a wide staircase in the centre of the room. He descended down the steps slowly as if he had all the time in the world. The man seemed a humourless, no-nonsense type of character and Angela took an instant dislike to him on principle.

  “Thank you, Mike,” the man said. “That will be all.”

  Mike nodded and departed back outside. The other man – whom Angela assumed was Frank – took the final few steps and approached her. He offered out a thick-knuckled hand covered by scars. It was a fighter’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Murs,” he commented.

  Well, at least he didn’t call me Reverend.

  “Frank, I assume? Are you the person who wanted to see me, because I was told it was a woman and you don’t seem to fit the bill.”

  The man did not laugh, but didn’t seem offended either – more that he simply lacked any kind of sense-of-humour. “The lady of the house will be down shortly,” he said. “She has asked that I make you comfortable. I am Chief of House and I will be looking after your needs during your stay.”

  “If I stay.”

  “Of course. Now, can I get you anything?”

  Angela shook her head. “Just somewhere to sit, please.”

  Frank nodded and led her to a small ante-chamber that consisted of two plush sofas and nothing else. He left her alone there and Angela started to think just how surreal the whole situation was. A couple of hours ago she’d been hanging around a student bar in Wolverhampton and now she was sitting in a Warwickshire mansion about to meet some mysterious stranger who obviously had more money than sense.

  Then there’s the whole exorcism thing.

  Angela had left the church for many reasons, but she knew that, deep down, it was also because she feared being a part of the clergy as much as she disdained it. She was afraid of having to confront evil and tend to its victims. Her placement on the isle of Jersey had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. The blood that soaked the church walls there was as much from the death of her faith as it was the death of her parishioners.

  Angela’s weaknesses were too many to be responsible for others. She was too susceptible to taking the path of sin. That had become abundantly clear on her final night as a priest in Jersey. The church had been knocked down just two weeks after she’d quit the calling she once thought would carry her forever.

  “Miss Murs, I’m so grateful that you came.” An attractive woman appeared in front of her. “My name is Jessica Bell-Raymeady, wife of the late Joseph Raymeady.”

  Angela’s face was expressionless. Neither name meant anything to her. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Please, follow me. We can grab ourselves a drink in the lounge.”

  Angela was wary of getting tipsy again, but if her host was drinking then what was the harm? It was strange, but she’d expected some toffee-nosed aristocrat to be the owner of the house, but the woman in front of her didn’t sound like an affluent person at all – not common exactly, b
ut neither was she posh. Her appearance gave the same casual impression – a middle-aged, blonde woman in tatty jeans and a loose sweatshirt.

  Angela followed the woman out of the anti-chamber and into a lounge room hidden behind the grand staircase. Inside there was a piano stage and a bar, as well as many tables and chairs. It actually looked a lot like a cruise ship lounge and Angela wondered if it was ever used to its capacity.

  “Take a seat, Angela. Do you mind if I call you Angela?”

  Angela shook her head.

  “Good. I’ll go and fetch some drinks. What’s your tipple?”

  “Scotch, if you have it?”

  Jessica smiled. “Of course. I have a delightful bottle of Longmorn 16. Will that do?”

  “Supermarket value whisky is fine by me, but hey, whatever you have.”

  Jessica let out a short, sharp yelp of laughter. The gesture was genuine, but there also seemed to be a strained quality to it, as if the woman were dangerously on edge. “To be honest with you, Angela, it all tastes the same to me too. My husband was somewhat of a connoisseur, but I’m just as happy with a cheap bottle of plonk and a pizza.”

  Angela smiled and wasn’t just being polite. The woman was not what she’d expected and the surprise was more pleasant than disappointing.

  Jessica disappeared behind the fully-stocked bar and then returned to join Angela at the table she’d chosen to sit at. Angela took a sip from the whisky she’d been given and was not surprised that it tasted like any other brand. In fact she had preferred the taste of the £2 shot she’d downed at the student bar in Wolverhampton.

  Jessica was sipping from an extra-large glass of white wine and seemed to be lost in thought.

  “So what is all this about?” Angela asked the woman.

  Jessica’s gaze snapped back to reality and a weary smile came over her face. “It’s my son, Angela. He’s very sick.”

  Frowning, Angela said, “Then you should really call a doctor, not an alcoholic ex-priest.”